


you can close your eyes, it's alright

by howgeorgeusedtobe



Series: falling slowly [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Dead May Parker (Spider-Man), Dissociation, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Insomnia, Irondad, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Gets a Hug, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Protective Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, Separation Anxiety, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Whump, background stucky but only if you squint, civil war happened but everyone's cool now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24450481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howgeorgeusedtobe/pseuds/howgeorgeusedtobe
Summary: And, to be honest, Peter kind of forgets about the business trip. Between daily AcaDec practices, five AP classes, and regular hangouts with MJ and Ned after school he doesn’t really have any extra room in his crowded brain. So when Tony meets him in the kitchen before breakfast on the following Monday dressed to the nines in a fine suit, it takes Peter several moments to realize why he looks so fancy. When he connects the dots, his stomach plummets.--Or: Tony's got a work conference in Japan, and Peter's got a bad feeling about it.can be read as a standalone or with the rest of the series :)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Michelle Jones & Peter Parker, Ned Leeds & Peter Parker, Peter Parker & Steve Rogers, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Series: falling slowly [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1431886
Comments: 29
Kudos: 256





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> title from James Taylor's You Can Close Your Eyes, I really love this song it's got some strong irondad vibes imo

When Tony tells him he and Pepper have got a business trip to Japan in a week, Peter doesn’t really think much of it. He can tell Tony’s nervous to bring it up-- the twitch of his nose, the vice-like grip on his left wrist, the way he won’t quite meet Peter’s eyes-- he can read the man like a book after four months of spending almost every spare moment together. 

“It’ll just be a few days, probably five at most. Super boring conference, you know, wining and dining those fortune 500 assholes,”--Peter does not point out that Tony himself is one of those assholes-- “trying to make some deals. We’ll be back before you know it, I promise,” Tony intones earnestly over an uncharacteristic breakfast spread of eggs, bacon, and toast. Peter nods, mouth full. The man pauses, fiddles with the handle of his coffee mug, takes a deep breath. “I wanted to see what you thought about staying here, by yourself. You’re almost seventeen, I trust you to keep things in order without a babysitter. And FRIDAY’s got Barnes and Steve on speed dial, they can be here in ten minutes if you need them.” Tony considers him before offering, “Or I can ask them to stay here, on one of the other floors, whatever you want.” 

“I’ll be alright Mr. Stark, they can stay in Brooklyn. I’ll call if I need them,” 

“Okay, I trust you kiddo.” A hesitant pause “And no patrol, okay? Just while I’m gone. It’d really ease my mind to know that people aren’t trying to kill you while I’m thousands of miles away.” The modicum of humor in Tony’s eyes is dwarfed by a pleading look, like he’s trying to guilt Peter into not arguing. 

Peter’s initial reaction is to fight it; he’s perfectly capable of handling himself, he definitely thinks he’s proven that time and again over the past several months. But Tony’s expression makes something in him falter, the part of him that always aims to please, that wants to show Tony how much he appreciates everything. 

“Okay, Mr. Stark. No patrolling,” he concedes. 

“Thank you, buddy. Just until I get back.”

And that had been the end of the conversation. 

And, to be honest, Peter kind of forgets about it. Between daily AcaDec practices, five AP classes, and regular hangouts with MJ and Ned after school he doesn’t really have any extra room in his crowded brain. So when Tony meets him in the kitchen before breakfast on the following Monday dressed to the nines in a fine suit, it takes Peter several moments to realize why he looks so fancy. When he connects the dots, his stomach plummets unexpectedly.

“I’ll see you soon, buddy. Call me if you need anything, okay? Night or day, I’ll pick it up.” Tony pulls him into a tight hug, and Peter allows himself a brief moment of childishness as he clings to the silk jacket before pulling away. He doesn’t know why the departure is making him nervous all of a sudden when he’s spent the past week practically none the wiser. 

“Pepper says goodbye, too. She had to leave early to schedule some stuff with the flight.” Tony places his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “Keep everything in order here while we’re away. FRIDAY will tattle, so no crazy house parties, capisce?” He’s giving Peter a soft smile, the one he reserves for when he’s trying not to let Peter glimpse his molten interior. Tony’s like a lava cake; structurally sound, unassuming on the outside, brimming with love and care and heart on the inside. 

“Capisco, Mr. Stark. Have fun in Japan, I’ll be fine here. See you in a few days,” Peter’s trying to mask the sudden explosion of butterflies in his stomach at the idea of being left completely alone. Tony studies him briefly before ruffling his hair and pulling him in for one last quick embrace. 

“Yep, just a few days. Talk to you later, kiddo.” And then he turns towards the elevator, leaving Peter with a bowl of cereal and a sinking feeling in his gut. 

Objectively, the first day is fine. He goes to school, does practice problems in calculus and answers questions about his weekend activities in Spanish and takes notes in U.S. History and tries to ignore the wiggly, slimy creature that’s taken up residence in his stomach. Texting Tony helps: just stupid stuff, random things he sees at school or on Twitter. He doesn’t get any responses, but that’s most likely because they’re on the plane and then landing in Japan time, so the man’s probably asleep.

It’s an odd feeling, trying to keep something at bay that isn't the octopus of grief resting in his rib cage. The tendrils have slowly but surely been receding over the past several months; he can sit in his room doing homework without feeling like he’s choking on sadness, he can tinker in the lab and help Tony make dinner and watch cheesy sitcoms with Pepper and not worry about the quiet, mundane moments in his life allowing the tentacles to clutch at his lungs and hold their grip. He can exist in the in-between spaces, enjoy them, and, day by day, step by step, he thinks he’s getting better. 

He eats lunch with Ned and MJ, bounces his leg through a seemingly endless physics lecture, takes the subway back to the tower when it’s all said and done. He finishes his history homework and his English project before FRIDAY announces that Steve and Bucky are on their way up with dinner, and it’s nice to not have to eat alone. They regale him with stories of the war, of the Howling Commandos and growing up during the Depression. 

“Steve used to shove newspapers in his shoes to make himself look taller,” Bucky laughs, full-bodied and open-mouthed as Steve cuffs him lightly on the side of the head. 

“Shut up, punk. You want to talk about embarrassing? How about all the times I caught you bopping around the living room to those _Vera Lynn’s Greatest Hits_ records, huh?” Steve’s smiling too, looking at Bucky like he hung the moon and the stars in the sky just for him. “ _There’ll be bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover,_ ” Steve croons in a mock-falsetto, and it’s Bucky’s turn to thump Steve’s temple. 

Bucky sounds indignant. “Oh please, I was a great dancer. You’re just jealous because you could never get the hang of it.” 

“My bad, I apologize for my asmathic lungs. I’m sorry I made you and your two left feet brave the halls alone,” Steve retorts, but there’s no heat behind it. 

Peter’s heart feels full; he’s happy, he’s warm, and well-fed, and his homework is done. The brightness in the room, cast by the chandelier above the table and by the happy sound of laughter and content sighs, keeps the two ugly things warring for dominance in his chest at bay. Grief retreats to its dungeon behind his sternum, and the boiling anxiety, hot and viscous and sloshing around in his stomach, quiets to a gentler simmer. He thinks he could probably doze off right here at the dining room table, surrounded by their laughter and quiet reminiscing. No sooner has the thought crossed his mind to give into the urge to rest his head on his arms does Steve clear his throat. 

“Well Pete, it’s getting pretty late. We should probably start heading back to Brooklyn.” He stands from the table, depositing the three plates in the kitchen sink. “Unless you wanted us to stay? Tony said the guest room’s all made up, or we could head down to our old floor,” 

Peter realizes then that he’s been ambushed. Steve and Bucky aren’t here to hang out, they’ve been sent by Tony to check up on him, make sure he’s faring okay on his own. And as much as he wants to accept the offer, beg the two to keep him company for just a little while longer, the independent side of him wants to prove to Tony that he’s okay, that he doesn’t need 24/7 supervision. 

“That’s alright guys, really, I’ll be okay here,” he assures them. “Thanks again for dinner, it was really good,” 

He follows them to the elevator, pausing as it opens. 

“No problem, pal, call us if you need anything, okay? We’re just a short walk away.” Bucky pats his shoulder. 

“And an even shorter motorcycle ride,” Steve grins, and then they’re gone. 

He turns into bed early, but the itchy restlessness that constantly thrums beneath his skin greets him like an old friend. This inability to relax, however, is not related to the crushing tentacles of a certain familiar parasitic creature; instead of images of May playing nonstop in his brain, projected behind his eyelids like those movies they used to put up on the sides of buildings for the neighborhood kids when he was younger, he can’t stop thinking about Tony. Something akin to his Spidey-sense is making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, rolling shivers down his spine every few minutes, a constant whisper of _wrongwrongwronwrong_ and Peter can’t get it to stop. 

_It’s just because he’s so far away,_ he tells himself. He and Tony haven’t really been separated like this in over four months, of course it’s going to feel weird to know there are thousands of miles between them now, especially when he’s just lost the woman who was his mother in all but title. Tony has become a constant, someone he’s used to relying on, and, considering his track record with parental figures, he reasons with himself that it’s totally normal to be worried something might happen. 

When another hour passes and sleep doesn’t creep in, Peter caves and decides to call him. It’s nearing 3 in the afternoon in Tokyo, so with any luck Tony will be on some sort of late lunch break. Hopefully. 

“Pete, you alright?” Tony picks up two rings in. He sounds flustered, like he’d practically been waiting for the call. 

“Yeah everything’s good, I just wanted to see how your day was.” Peter tries not to let himself sound melancholic, lonely. 

“It’s like, what, almost 2 in the morning there? What are you doing awake?” Tony dodges the question. 

“I was going to call you before I went to bed but I thought you’d be in meetings, so I decided to wait. I fell asleep for, like, an hour, but I woke up a bit ago and I just wanted to see how you were,” Peter lies, but even to his own ears it sounds rehearsed, like he’d practiced it in anticipation for the question. He’s just thankful Tony can’t see his face, his eyes; Tony can always see the deception in his eyes. 

There’s a hesitant pause, and for a split second Peter thinks maybe he’s going to get called out on his fib. He thinks that, somehow, Tony knows about the unrelenting anxiety festering in his stomach. 

“My day’s been fine, lots of boring meetings and whatnot. Jet lags sucks, but the food almost makes up for it. Lots of fresh sushi.” Peter lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “How was your day, buddy?”

“It was good. Steve and Bucky came over for dinner,” Peter offers, aiming to see if Tony will fess up to his meddling. 

“Yeah, I might have mentioned that you'd like some company. Lord knows you can’t cook for shit,” Tony chuckles at Peter’s indignant huff. “Do you need anything, kiddo? You sure you’re doing okay by yourself?” 

“Yeah, ‘m alright,” Peter pauses briefly. “It’s just weird. Everything’s really quiet. I can’t fall asleep.” The last part slips out accidentally.

“Do you want me to talk to you for a bit? Just until you’re doze off, then FRIDAY can hang up the call,” and that sounds like the best idea Peter’s ever heard. 

“You don’t have anything else to do right now? No big, important meeting that determines the future of your company?” 

“Nothing’s more important than you Pete,” Tony says softly, and then he begins to describe the lunch he’s just finished and the hotel room he and Pepper are sharing and the incredible rain head showers Japan has, and Peter lets the waves of Tony’s voice, low and gentle, soothe his clammy skin and his jackrabbit heart. If he closes his eyes tight enough he can pretend that Tony is beside him, fingers carefully brushing bangs from his forehead and offering a warm shoulder as a pillow, and he clings to this merciful comfort as he drifts off. 

He wakes up groggy and disoriented, unsure of when he fell asleep and therefore very baffled by the constant blaring of FRIDAY’s alarm. 

“Okay, alright, I’m up, would you please turn that off,” he sits up, untangling his legs from the comforter. 

“Good morning, Peter. It is currently 62 degrees, with a forecasted high of 71 and a low of 59. The time is 6:07 AM, and your train departs in approximately one hour.”

“Thanks, FRI.” Peter reaches for his phone, only to find it dead on his nightstand with his charger discarded on the floor. 

_Damn,_ he thinks. _Must have fallen asleep before I remembered to plug it in._

He figures he can get at least some battery in it while he gets ready, so he inserts the charger before tossing the phone into the pile of blankets on his bed and heading towards the bathroom. 

When he’s dressed and ready to leave, he shoves his notebooks and laptop into his backpack, slides on his tennis shoes, and hops into the elevator without a second thought towards the charging phone laying amongst the covers. 

The morning goes smoothly; his physics teacher cancels their quiz, and his timed writing in english is a cinch (he thanks whatever deity above that they were analyzing JFK and not something that sounded like it was written by Chaucer). He realizes he’s left his phone on his bed halfway through free period, but Ned gives him an earbud and they watch old Vine compilations instead of doing work so Peter doesn’t really miss it. It’s even pizza day in the cafeteria, so despite the cardboard-like bread and the spongy cheese, it’s better than expired tuna melts or moldy grilled cheeses, and Peter counts that as a win. 

He’s laughing at some comment MJ’s made about the new Kaitlin Bennett video posted a few days prior (“She literally said she doesn’t think women should have the right to vote. What the fuck. You know what? I don’t think she should have the right to speak, but here we are”) when Ned’s phone chimes in indication that he’s got a news alert. 

“Oh, please tell me that someone’s shot Donald Trump,” MJ deadpans. “Or else he’s been spontaneously impeached and removed from office,” 

Ned chuckles, tapping on his phone screen to open the article. His face falls automatically, color draining from his cheeks and eyebrows knitting together. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Peter reaches for the phone when Ned doesn’t answer. 

“Holy shit, Peter,” Ned’s still staring at the screen, but he’s clutching his phone so Peter can’t take it. 

“What the hell’s going on, Ned? Just tell me,” The panic from the past days is bubbling up once more, and somehow Peter knows for certain that his feelings of _wrongwrongwrong_ were justified. 

Ned turns the phone, screen trembling in his too-tight grip, showing them the headline: 

_Tony Stark Shot During Conference Presentation; Condition Unknown, Presumed Critical._


	2. chapter two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They’ve only been back from lunch for fifteen minutes, but every second grates on Peter’s nerves, and he’s all too aware of each caged heartbeat, each shaking breath and compulsive swallow. He can feel every rough stitch of cotton in his t-shirt, can hear disjointed Kahoot music from at least four different classrooms across the school, can see everything in stark colors and contrasts. It’s like his senses know what’s missing, and maybe, just maybe, if they sharpen enough, he’ll be able to hear Tony’s heart beating 6,000 miles away._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, hope you like it! I added a third chapter because the second one was turning out to be super long, but ch3 should be up in a few days!

Peter thinks that he must be underwater. It’s the only explanation—there are waves crashing over him, one after another, anxiety, apathy, grief (even though he doesn’t have anything new to grieve for, at least not yet). Somewhere, in the distance, MJ and Ned are calling his name, but they sound too far away and don’t they understand that he can’t answer them, can’t draw in a breath because there’s water rushing into his lungs and drowning him from the inside out? He’s numb, a buffer solution of acidic cynicism crawling up his throat like bile, _Parker luck strikes again,_ mixing violently with a basic, primal fear that can only be soothed by calloused hands and worn cotton embrace; they cancel each other out, hydrogen and hydroxide ions magicked into h-two-oh and Peter Parker is just a shell of himself. Frozen.

He’s decided to close his eyes, surrender to constant push-and-pull of feeling too much and not enough all at once, when suddenly there are hands on his shoulders and a large face crowding his vision.

“Peter, can you hear me?” That’s Ned. Peter nods, because it’s like the dentist’s incompetent little assistant has remembered his job and finally shoved the suction cup wand into his consciousness, siphoning all the water away and bringing the world back into nauseating focus.

“The article doesn’t say anything, there aren’t any details yet. I’m sure he’s fine, they’d have released something if he wasn’t.” Ned definitely doesn’t sound sure, but Peter so desperately wants to believe him that he nods again. “Do you want to use my phone to call someone? Pepper, maybe?” And Peter does, but as soon as he’s staring down at the keypad it strikes him that he doesn’t know anybody’s cell, probably couldn’t even coax the digits out on a good day, let alone in the eye of a looming panic attack.

“I—I don’t know the n—number,” he stutters out, offering the phone back to Ned with quivering hands.

“That’s okay, we’ll just sit right here for a minute, maybe wait for the article to update or something,” MJ says from his other side, uncharacteristically gentle and witless. And that sounds like a good idea—a moment to recoup, to force himself to swim upwards, break the surface of swirling emotion and draw in a few good breaths, think logically. He’s halfway through this façade of a plan when the bell rings for the end of lunch. The shrill tone irritates his senses, and his breathing ratchets up without his permission, and the water laps at his nose, pressing against his tight lips. He refuses to let it in again so easily. 

“Okay, change of plans. MJ and I are going to walk you to the nurse, she’s definitely got an emergency contact on file.” Ned sounds so calm, so level-headed. Peter trusts him. “Someone will come pick you up and then you can get some more info, alright?” But Peter’s shaking his head, because Happy and Tony and Pepper are all in Japan, and he doesn’t know Steve’s number and he feels like little Kevin McCallister, _Lost in New York,_ even though he’s lived here his whole life. 

“They’re all in Japan, they’re all with Tony, I’m here by myself,” Peter forces the explanation out, willing Ned and MJ to understand how crushingly alone he feels. 

(Later, reflecting on these hazy, panic-laced moments, Peter will realize several things: One, Pepper is his second emergency contact for the school. When they can’t get a hold of Tony, they call Pepper. Two, Pepper has access to any phone number he could ever need or want, including the two people tasked with looking out for him, both just ten minutes away in Brooklyn. Three, in hindsight, he really should have just used Pepper as a proxy to get to Bucky and Steve.) 

He’s staring down at his hands, clenched fists covering the knees of his worn out jeans, white knuckles against navy denim, but he can feel Ned and MJ having a silent conversation over his head. 

“Alrighty, plan B, then,” MJ says casually, adopting Ned’s coolness. “We’ll go to class and wait for either the school day to end or someone to come pick you up. I’m sure they’re worried about you. I’d bet anything that Steve and Bucky will be here within the hour.” And God, Peter really hopes she’s right.

Chemistry usually flies by. The material comes easily for Peter; he practically dreams in Lewis Structures and balanced redox half-reactions. But, in this moment, he couldn't care less about the numbers and symbols lining the board in Mr. Wright’s messy chicken scratch. They’ve only been back from lunch for fifteen minutes, but every second grates on Peter’s nerves, and he’s all too aware of each caged heartbeat, each shaking breath and compulsive swallow. He can feel every rough stitch of cotton in his t-shirt, can hear disjointed Kahoot music from at least four different classrooms across the school, can see everything in stark colors and contrasts. It’s like his senses know what’s missing, and maybe, just maybe, if they sharpen enough, he’ll be able to hear Tony’s heart beating 6,000 miles away. 

Peter closes his eyes, desperate for any sort of reprieve, and tries to remember the breathing trick May used to do with him. 

_“Breathe in deep and hold for seven,” she’s got both hands on his shoulders, kneeling in front of a ten-year-old little boy who feels everything so much and can’t seem to grasp the hang of letting things go. “That’s it, baby, you’re doing so good.” This is a lie. Peter still can’t breathe properly, but chastising him won’t change that. “Now let it all out, and hold for another seven. You’ve got it, honey, you’re alright. Just keep breathing for me.” And Peter does._

The memory of May, the sevens trick, they help, if only marginally. He passes the lingering minutes counting and breathing, willing the tidal wave to recede. 

It could be moments or hours later when the classroom phone rings. Mr. Wright pauses his lecture to answer it. 

Peter isn’t really paying attention, still focused on screwing his courage to any piece of solid ground within that hasn’t been flooded, when his teacher calls his name. 

“Peter? Someone’s in the office to pick you up,” 

“Okay,” comes Peter’s quiet response, but it must be enough, because Mr. Wright jumps back into the lesson. Ned’s giving him an encouraging look, and MJ pats his arm when he reaches down to grab his backpack. He tries to smile at them both, but it’s definitely more like a grimace when it comes out. 

The walk to the front office feels like a death march. The fluorescent lights above illuminate the seemingly never-ending hallway; locker after locker, repeating tile pattern that can’t seem to find its concluding print. The breathing trick’s success has waned, and he feels now more than ever like he’s gasping for air, each lungful less satisfying than the last. 

When he reaches the glass-paned entrance office he can see Steve’s broad outline against the secretary’s desk, and he feels a moment of relief. Someone has come for him; he’s not alone, not stranded, not lost. And then he immediately feels a sense of wrong, because it’s usually Tony who picks him up from school, and the 5’10’’ billionaire-shaped hole glaring back at him seems ominous and uncanny. The scene is almost right, but there’s a vital detail missing. 

“Hey, Pete,” Steve greets as Peter walks through the double doors. “All set?” The smile on his face looks forced, pained, and his eyes look tired. 

“Yeah, yep, ready to go,” Peter tries to match the false enthusiasm when Steve glances surreptitiously at the lady behind the desk, but he’s positive the attempt falls flat. They wave goodbye to the woman and head towards Midtown’s front doors. 

Steve doesn’t speak to him on the walk to the car, but as soon as they’re situated and on the road Peter can’t help the torrent of questions that spill from his mouth. 

“What happened? Is he okay? Where is he now? How--” but Steve cuts him off with a hand. 

“We don’t know much. Helen got there around thirty minutes ago, but Pepper’s still waiting on an update. He’s been in surgery, we won’t get any news until he gets out.” Steve looks anguished, the picture of a man trying to put on a brave face but who is quickly running out of paint for his mask. “We really just don’t know right now, and I’m so sorry because that’s the last thing anyone wants to hear in a situation like this, but it’s the best that I can do for you.” 

Peter is back underwater. Everything feels muffled, fuzzy, far away. He’s outside of his body, looking down on the black Audi where Steve sits accompanied by a life-like model of Peter Parker ( _Get yours today!_ He thinks grimly. _Only $19.99 plus shipping and handling!_ ). This is his worst nightmare come to life. 

He doesn’t speak for the duration of the car ride. He doesn’t speak when they reach the tower, or during the elevator ride, or even when they make it to the penthouse and Bucky greets them from the kitchen. He just drifts along like a loyal helium balloon knotted around a child’s wrist. 

Bucky sits him down at the table and places a plate of some steaming pasta dish in front of him, but Peter doesn’t think he could swallow anything past the lump in his throat. When he tries to explain as much, he finds the words can’t push past it either, so he simply shakes his head. 

They all sit at the table for a phony dinner. Bucky and Steve eat, Peter watches. There isn’t much conversation, not even a perfunctory “how was your day” because just asking the question feels mocking. After dinner, when the pair are washing dishes in the kitchen, Steve calls to Peter, “Hey, do you want to call Pepper? I don’t think there’s anything new but she mentioned wanting to talk with you.” 

Peters heart speeds up and he nods vigorously, because Pepper is the closest to Tony he can get right now. 

“Why don’t you go take a shower and I can have her on the line for when you get out, alright?” Steve sounds cautious, and Peter reads the underlying _in case there’s any bad news we need to prepare for._

Peter’s just about to turn the shower on when he hears hushed voices coming from the living room. 

“He hasn’t spoken a word since Steve picked him up. Wouldn’t eat dinner, either. We don’t know what to do, what to tell him.” That’s Bucky, worried and quiet. 

“He hasn’t said anything?” That’s Pepper, sounding even wearier than Bucky. He can imagine the bags under her eyes, her pursed lips and the wrinkles carved into her forehead. “He needs to eat, the last thing we need is some sort of low blood sugar incident.” There’s an uncertain pause. “I’ll talk to him, try to get him to relax, but I really don’t have anything new. He’s out of surgery but Dr. Cho said things could get worse at the drop of a hat. We just don’t know.”  
At that, Peter decides he’s heard enough and twists the shower handle until the water is scalding. He closes his eyes, lets it pound against his back and work out some of the tension in his shoulders. It feels good, different than the dark, brackish stuff that was lapping at his sanity earlier, practically drowning him. 

The shower lasts twenty minutes, and by then Peter’s got red blotches on his skin and the water’s heat is bordering on oppressive. Still, when he steps out into the steamy room, he feels a little bit more relaxed and less like he’s constantly on the verge of hyperventilating. 

After he’s changed into sweatpants and an old Midtown shirt, he makes his way back into the lounge, where Steve and Bucky are still FaceTiming Pepper. 

“Hey, sweetheart, how are you doing?” She looks just as tired as Peter guessed she would, right down to the crinkles sitting above her eyebrows. She must have stepped out into the waiting room, because he can see little wooden tables littered with outdated magazines in the background. He wonders, briefly, why she isn’t with Tony. 

Peter shrugs, because the shower felt really good but it wasn’t magic, and the lump in his throat persists, more solid than ever. He feels bad for not asking about how she’s holding up, but the day is starting to catch up with him and he can feel the exhaustion creeping in. 

“We don’t have anything new right now, but as far as we’re concerned, no news is good news, yeah? Helen says that they’ve weaned him off the anesthetics, and he’ll hopefully start waking up soon, but they can’t be sure. The biggest concern is trying to avoid any more bleeding, inside or out. I’ll call you as soon as anything changes," She pauses, worries her bottom lip. It’s so uncharacteristically Pepper that Peter’s mind has to do somersaults to process what he's seeing. “They’ve said that we can fly back when he wakes up and continue treatment at the tower, which would ideally be within the next twenty-four hours. Would you be alright with Steve and Bucky until then?” 

Logically, Peter knows that this is the correct option. But the ugly monsters in his chest roar in victory at the prospect, and, as he reluctantly nods, he feels his heart rate pick up and his breathing stutter. Pepper must hear the hitch on his next inhale because her eyes turn sympathetic. 

“I know, honey, I know, it’s alright.” He feels Steve squeeze his shoulder as Bucky gently forces his head between his knees, keeping a steady palm on the nape of his neck. Pepper whispers soothing platitudes while he works through the moment, willing the anxiety to loosen its hold on his lungs and the inexplicable Grief to make a home somewhere other than his throat. Eventually, when his breathing has calmed down and the violent shaking of his shoulders has lessened to a tremble, when he’s leaning on Steve’s shoulder and his eyelids are drooping without his permission, Pepper takes her leave. 

“Get some sleep, sweetheart, alright? And try to eat something before you go to bed, or at least in the morning.” His stomach lurches at the mention of food. “I’ll call you if anything changes. Talk to you soon,” And then she hangs up. 

The digital clock under the TV tells him it’s just past eleven, which is far earlier than he’d normally go to bed, but Steve’s bicep is warm and the safe, homey feeling from dinner the night before slowly replaces the raw panic from moments ago. The exhaustion is bone-deep, and Peter thinks that he must have reached his limit on feeling for the day, because he drifts off pleasantly blank and numb. 

When he wakes up, the clock has changed to read midnight on the dot, and Peter’s temple is cushioned on a flannel-clad thigh. He tilts his head to see Steve staring back at him, one large hand nestled in Peter's hair and the other on his shoulder. 

“Hey, pal, you want to head to bed? You’ll probably sleep better there.” Peter nods mechanically around the fog clinging to the edges of his vision and lets Steve manhandle him into a sitting position. “Pepper says no school tomorrow, so don’t set an alarm or anything, okay?” He leads Peter back to his room, follows him as he gets into bed, pats his shoulder once he’s situated. “It’s going to be alright, I promise. Sleep tight, buddy.” And then he’s gone, and Peter is alone. 

Once upon a time, Peter was afraid of the quiet canyon separating sleep and consciousness. He hated waiting for the drowsiness that wouldn’t come, despised how clingy he felt asking FRIDAY to call Tony, only finally able to drift off with a hand in his hair and a soothing Italian lullaby filling his ears. He hasn’t needed that so frequently, as of late. The slimy creatures in his chest leave him be; he’s picked up some self-soothing techniques along the way, tricks for chopping off the sticky tendrils and fighting his own battles. But tonight he has no need for breathing tricks or counting sheep; tonight, as soon as Steve has closed his door and FRIDAY has shut off his lamp, the fatigue that had gripped him on the couch returns full force, and Peter is out like a light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!  
> Come find me on tumblr @howgeorgeusedtobe!


	3. chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Every time he tries to draw in enough air to fill his lungs, and then let it all go in a calm, controlled way, he’s hit with the same cold fear that Tony is somewhere hurt and asleep, and that he might not wake up and come home. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands trembling, his shoulders rising and falling erratically, as the compulsive need to be near Tony, to check on him, to stand guard, floods Peter’s every sense._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final chapter! I hope you enjoy; this'll be the longest one yet, clocking in right at 4k

_Peter’s back at Coney Island. Or rather, he’s above it, clinging to the side of an enormous jet, desperately trying to bring it safely to the ground. But there’s something different about this plane; it’s not the sleek, modern design of the quinjet. Instead it looks like a commercial 747, or something similar: white body, little circular windows lining the sides. When he squints he can make out two faces pressed against one of the portholes near the front; a man and a woman, both with frightened eyes and mouths gaping in twin silent screams._

Those are my parents, _he realizes. He can recognize his father’s horn-rimmed glasses, his mother’s flaming red hair, and suddenly the situation is exponentially more dire because he_ has _to save them, has to make sure they’re okay, but he’s losing control and the beach is getting closer and closer until--_

_The plane hits with a massive explosion, and Peter is thrown from the side. He sits up, cradling a bruised wrist to his bruised chest, trying to ignore the trickle of blood down his bruised temple as it leaks from a contusion on his forehead. His vision is blurry, he can’t make out much other than the fires dancing on the sand and pieces of flaming debris surrounding the crash site._

_He loses focus for a minute, and when he can see clearly again the flames have morphed into flickering city lights, and Peter’s fourteen years old, watching Uncle Ben get shot once, twice, three times in the chest. The noise of each bullet is harsh and clear; poignant and final. Ben’s blood is seeping into the concrete, and Peter’s begging him not to go, but his new enhanced senses echo his uncle’s last breath, his final heartbeat. Peter can’t draw his eyes away from Ben’s unseeing gaze, not until he hears a scream behind him and whips around just in time to see a big semi plow through the intersection where May had been standing. She collides with the front of the truck in a sickening symphony of cracks and pops_ , _and Peter can hear every single one._

 _When he turns back to his uncle, it isn’t Ben at all; it’s Tony. Brown eyes replace blue in a blank stare, and Peter can see the gunshots on Tony’s chest exactly where they were on Ben’s. Peter feels as though he’s run a marathon. His breath is coming in short pants, and he’s calling, screaming, for Tony or May or Ben or_ someone _to help him. The city lights spasm and buzz, and then go out altogether, and Peter succumbs to the mercy of the looming, tentacled creature he’s been fighting practically his entire life._

_He physically cannot do the whole grief thing again. It’s the same deal every time: a raw incision, a paper cut times a thousand, with lemon juice and salt and rubbing alcohol in a constant assault. The wound never closes, not fully, but he’s always had band-aids to ease the pain while waiting for his skin to scar over. May and Ben, and then just May, and now Tony. But without a covering, without protection from the petrifying thing reaching for him, closer and closer and closer, Peter is a bundle of raw nerves, a million hangnails stuck in an acid rainstorm with no umbrella. Grief, Peter decides in a hazy agony of raw stinging and a yearning so overwhelming he might be sick, broken down to its bare essentials, is just hurt. Plain and simple._

Peter wakes abruptly to foreign hands on his shoulders and concerned blue eyes staring intently at him. 

“Hey, there you go kid, just take some deep breaths, you’re okay,” Bucky soothes, voice low and gentle. “In and out, good job, just like that.” 

Peter’s soaked in sweat, can feel it dripping from his hair and down his face. Bucky’s perched on the bed, near Peter’s hip, dressed in an old t-shirt and navy pajama pants, looking like he’s been roused from a deep torpor. That makes Peter feel a little bit bad, even through the fog of panic; he’s never liked waking people up, accident or no. 

As much as he wants to graciously accept Bucky’s comfort, fall into an open-armed hug and drift off back to sleep, the overwhelming _wrongness_ of the situation seeps into his consciousness as he takes in the too-heavy hands on his shoulders. Their weight is bordering on just the wrong side of the line between grounding and trapping. Peter shakes them off agitatedly, scooting back to lean against the headboard. 

“Sorry, sorry, Pete,” Bucky holds his hands up in a placating gesture. Peter’s still struggling to draw in a full breath, each inhale stuttering like the worn out motor of the old Chevy Uncle Ben used to borrow from his buddy at work for weekend trips to Orchard Beach. “I just need you to breathe, pal, you can do it.” The words are soft and encouraging, but Peter doesn’t think he can. He shakes his head. The breathing gets worse; it feels like an asthma attack. 

Every time he tries to draw in enough air to fill his lungs, and then let it all go in a calm, controlled way, he’s hit with the same cold fear that Tony is somewhere hurt and asleep, and that he might not wake up and come home. His heart is hammering in his chest, his hands trembling, his shoulders rising and falling erratically, as the compulsive need to be near Tony, to check on him, to stand guard, floods Peter’s every sense. 

He thinks the panic attack must get worse, not that he can feel anything other than this suddenly desperate desire, because Bucky calls for Steve and then Peter’s fighting to get more heavy, leaden palms off his chest and shoulders. 

“No, no, no no, no, no--” It feels so wrong: he’s too hot and he can’t breathe and he can’t hear Tony’s heart beating or his lungs filling rhythmically or any Italian lullabies mumbled into the darkness. Peter thinks this is Hell: hot and Tony-less. Really, hot and void of anyone who brings him comfort. 

The hands don’t let up; he’s no match for two supersoldiers, at least not in his current state.

“Peter, pal, you’ve gotta calm down,” Steve murmurs. “You’re alright, Tony’s alright, just take some deep breaths. It’s okay.” His voice is rumbly and baritone, and a part of Peter briefly considers letting it soothe him, but then he’s bound up by the urgency of not knowing, and he fights even harder. “Please, please, just try and calm down for me,” 

Peter wants to scoff at that; Steve’s pleading like Peter’s already-fragile sanity isn’t hanging by an even thinner thread; like this shouldn’t frighten Peter as much as it does, when they both know perfectly well that if someone is unlucky enough to be orphaned twice over, then Lady Fate is probably sitting back with a bucket of popcorn and a rigged wheel just waiting to strike again.

Peter shakes his head, tries again to get Bucky and Steve let go of him, and then draws his knees up to his chest to bury his head in them. He doesn’t remember starting to cry, but now that he’s realized the sweat on his face is mixing with a steady trickle tears, he feels himself unravelling even more. The sobs are harsh and ugly, but he’s too tired to try and hold them in. 

“Okay, alright, plan B,” He doesn’t know if that’s Steve or Bucky, doesn’t really care. “Just a quick pinch, Pete, then you’ll sleep for a bit, okay? No dreams, just some good ol’ fashioned hibernation.” And that sounds nice, because though he was ready to die on this hill of demanding to see Tony just moments ago, the fatigue from spending the past twenty-four hours crying and worrying and not sleeping is catching up to him. 

He feels the bed by his hip move as a weight leaves it, only to return a few minutes later and reposition itself. A large, soft hand holds his shoulder, and another gently tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck. There’s the quick bite of a needle, and then a cool calmness radiates from the point, replacing the boiling, red hot panic with blue serenity. 

It’s pure bliss, and Peter feels the tension melt from his shoulders and his eyelids start to droop without his permission. 

“That’s it, just a little something to take the edge off.” The same hands that, just moments prior, seemed to be suffocating and caging are tilting him onto his side and tucking him in, and he can’t remember why he didn’t like them before. They’re warm and careful, not quite Tony’s, but they feel safe. 

“Take a nap, kiddo. We’ll let you know if anything changes.” And Peter, who is inclined to hate following any sort of order, feels that sleep is probably the best thing ever invented. 

He’s just drifting off when, barely registrable, FRIDAY’s Irish lilt sounds above him: “Sirs, incoming call from Miss Potts. She says it’s urgent.”

When Peter comes to, it’s slowly and with the lethargy of a cat basking on a window sill. He stretches, arms above his head and muscles taught, pushing his legs into the mess of covers at the foot of his bed. There’s just the faintest hint of sunlight coming in through the windows, weak and grey instead of boisterous and golden. Early morning, then. 

As he’s waking up, rebooting the cylinders in his brain, oiling the joints, updating his systems, there’s a nagging feeling at the base of his skull, a kind of almost-but-not-quite spidey sense alert. He feels like a kid who doesn’t remember it’s Christmas; there’s something big, something important, that he’s forgetting, but he’s too groggy to think about it too hard. 

He’s sitting up in bed, still reaching for that key bit of information tucked somewhere in the back of his mind when his bedroom door swings open. There, standing in all her frazzled, faux-calm glory is Pepper Potts, white pantsuit and all. 

“Hey, honey, FRIDAY told me you were up. How’re you feeling?” Peter’s confused. Why wouldn’t he be feeling okay? And why is Pepper in his room? She’d been in Japan, with Happy and Tony… 

He feels stupid. Like, maybe they should take that last digit off his IQ, because yesterday’s events start leaking back in one by one. 

Tony was shot. 

Pepper told him they didn’t know what was going to happen. 

The nightmare. 

The needle’s pinch, and then euphoric tranquility. 

And if Pepper’s here, then Tony must be, too. 

“How is he? _Where_ is he? Can I see him? Pepper, please tell me he’s--” he can’t stop the words from tumbling out of his mouth, and the whole not talking thing must have been psychosomatic because the lump in his throat is nowhere to be found now that he’s not thinking about it. 

“He’s downstairs, in the MedBay with Helen. He’s going to be okay, sweetheart.” Pepper’s got a watery smile on her face, but she doesn’t let the tears fall. “He woke up and was talking my ear off for nearly an hour before the flight here. They say we’re past the point of needing to worry too much, if anything was going to start bleeding it would have by now.”

Peter’s heart stutters, he feels his breath catch in his throat, and he feels tears form in his own eyes. He lets out a shaky breath, lets his shoulders fall, puts his head in his hands. 

“I called as soon as Steve and Bucky had knocked you out. Timing was just awful, really, but you were already asleep when they picked up.” She moves from the doorway to sit on the edge of his bed. “He’s going to be just fine,” she repeats. “I promise.” 

Pepper’s hands don’t feel suffocating like Bucky’s or Steve’s had in the middle of the night. Hers are gentle, purposeful. One strokes his back, impossibly delicate through his faded t-shirt, the other squeezes his bicep. If Peter closes his eyes tight enough, it could be May sitting beside him, save for the wrong perfume. Selfishly, he wants to hold his breath, just for a moment, and make himself believe that it is. 

They sit there for a while, long enough for Peter to get his breath back and for the trembling in his shoulders to stop and for the itchy need to lay his eyes on Tony to return full force. 

Pepper must sense his restlessness because she meets his eyes when he looks up and gently orders him to get a shower, change his clothes, and then meet her in the MedBay when he’s done. The first two items are the last things in the world he wants to do, but Pepper looks stressed and sleep-deprived already and he would feel bad for making her worry more, so he nods obediently and makes his way towards the bathroom. 

The shower feels nice, but he races through it. The scalding water won’t soothe the desperate yearning that’s growing stronger by the minute; neither will putting on a new pair of sweatpants and a different t-shirt. 

It takes him less than fifteen minutes to get ready, and as soon as he’s pulled on his second sock he’s running towards the elevator, sliding across the hardwood floors and skidding to a stop before FRIDAY opens the doors. 

He drums his fingers on his legs for the duration of the ride. FRIDAY doesn’t talk to him. He can feel his heart _thump thump thump_ ing in his chest, can feel the slimy things in his stomach wriggle and slither around. There’s a ticker tape on a constant loop behind his eyes: _whatifwhatifwhatif_. Times Square, but instead of Coca-Cola, these advertisements are for The Worst Case Scenario Reenacted A Hundred Different Ways. 

When he finally gets to the MedBay he finds Pepper waiting for him. 

“This way, sweetheart,” and he follows her down a long hall, feeling the same ominous haze hanging in the air that he’d sensed at school the previous day. They walk and walk and walk, and he doesn’t remember the MedBay being this big, until they finally make it to a room at the very end of the corridor. 

Pepper opens the door, moves out of the way, lets him go in first. 

Peter’s breath leaves him at the sight of Tony asleep in the dreary hospital bed. An invisible fist has punched him in the gut; he doubles over, almost in physical pain at the palpable relief of hearing the man’s heartbeat for himself. For the first time he’s thankful for his dialled up senses-- he can make out the expansion of Tony’s lungs on each inhale, can feel the vibrations of the chambers of his heart pumping strong and steady in unison. It’s magic, metronomical, balanced. 

A sob forces its way out of his throat, and he puts his hands on his knees, trying to breathe slowly around the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“It’s okay, honey, it’s alright. Come sit down, just like that, there we go,” and Peter feels awful for being another thing she has to take care of because that’s her _fiancé_ lying there, but he lets himself be led to the chair and pushed into its plasticky embrace. 

The panic ebbs quickly; no more perpetually rising tide, no more drowning in cold, black nothingness. Tony’s heart, combined with the shrill mimicry of the machines, keeps him buoyed. 

“He’s just fine, Peter, I promise.” Pepper’s taken the seat on the other side of the bed. “Just relax for a bit, Helen says he should start waking up again soon.” She takes Tony’s left hand in her own before grabbing a tablet from the table next to the bed. Peter takes his other hand, intertwines their fingers, studies the callouses and scars intently. He rests his head on the blankets near Tony’s hip, and doesn’t fall asleep, but lets his eyes unfocus and tunes into the openings and closings of ventricles and atria coming from between the man’s ribs. For the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, he feels entirely at peace. 

He’s counted one-thousand, three-hundred and twenty-two heartbeats when there’s a returning squeeze to his right hand. Peter lifts his head sharply, making eye contact with Pepper before averting his gaze to Tony’s squinty eyes blinking open and shut, open and shut. 

“Mr. Stark?” Tony’s eyes shoot open, swiveling to find Peter. There’s a brief pause when they meet each other’s gaze. Tony’s looking at him delicately, like Peter’s the one who’s been shot and could fall apart at any moment. 

“Hey, Pete.” It’s raspy and sleep-heavy, but it’s music to Peter’s ears, and it breaks something in him. He had thought he’d feel better getting to see Tony, getting to hear him breathing and see for himself that everything was okay. But the sight of him in the hospital bed, looking so frail and breakable, shatters the image of an impervious Iron Man that Peter’s always connected with Tony Stark. 

It seems like someone’s sucked all the air from the room because, for what feels like the thousandth time in the past twenty-four hours, Peter can’t breathe. And even though Tony’s alive in front of him, talking and awake, Peter is struck with the terrible notion that anything could happen to him at any moment, and really the revelation shouldn’t seem so surprising considering his parents, Ben, and May, but Tony was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be steady, strong, sure. Invincible in a way the others hadn’t been. 

“Tony, Tony, Tony,” he lets out great shuddering gasps, canting forward to press his forehead to the man’s shoulder. “Tony, Tony, Tony, Tony,” he can’t stop the litany, the prayer, from forcing its way around the sobs bubbling up. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, I’m alright,” The hands he’s been craving since the night before last finally find their places on the back of his head and at the nape of his neck. Tony shushes him quietly, lips brushing the shell of Peter’s ear. “I’m right here, buddy, everything’s okay,” he soothes. Peter shakes his head, but he can’t explain why he’s crying, panicking, through the mess of heaving breaths and trembling shoulders. 

The angle is awkward; Peter’s still half-sitting in the chair by the bed, one foot underneath his body as he leans into Tony’s shoulder. He’s grasping at the thin hospital gown, trying to get impossibly closer, when he feels the arms around him loosen. 

“C’mere, Pete,” Tony slides over as much as he can, patting the new space next to him, and, in all his gangly, uncoordinated glory, Peter clambers onto the bed. Tony situates him, tucks his face into his neck, wraps him back up all snug and secure. “There we go, just like that. We’re alright, bud, I promise you.”

Peter feels nauseous and hazy, still trying to draw in even breaths, but it feels easier with his nose pressed against Tony’s collarbone and Tony’s fingers scratching his scalp. He clutches a wrinkle of the hospital gown between his fingers, grounds himself in feeling each stitch and thread. 

That strong, steady heartbeat is so much louder when it’s only separated from his ear by several inches of tissue and bone. Combined with Tony’s constant, gentle murmurs, Peter feels like it’s his own personal berceuse. 

It takes several minutes of whispered reassurances, of Peter squeezing his eyes tight and keeping his face tucked in the junction of Tony’s shoulder and neck, of focusing on nothing but the familiar rhythm of heart and lungs working in tandem, but eventually Peter is convinced enough that, at least in this moment, Tony is safe. No freak accident is going to rip him violently away. Still, even after the fear has receded, high, sloshing waves coaxed away by low tide, he doesn’t move. He lets himself be held; lets Tony continue stroking his hair, lets his eyes fall shut, lets his mind wander between sleep and consciousness. He feels safe, protected, but also like he’s protecting; like if he holds onto this moment tight enough, if he sticks himself to Tony and keeps his face pressed into the side of his neck, then he can make sure that nothing happens to Tony, too. 

Peter doesn’t count the heartbeats, nor the high-pitched whines coming from the machines, so he doesn’t know how long he lays against Tony, not quite asleep. Long enough for Pepper to take her leave (“I’m going to get you two something to eat, I’ll be back in a minute,”) and long enough for Steve and Bucky to amble in. There’s a hushed conversation over his head-- an exchange of _thank you_ s and worried _I’m sorry_ s and pleading _we had no choice_ s, and Peter’s mind lazily wonders whether they’re discussing the drug, whatever miracle from several hours ago that had taken away the awful, fever-like visions and given him the blissful gift of dreamless sleep, and he doesn’t want Tony to be angry at Steve and Bucky but he also doesn’t much feel like joining the conversation. 

“We didn’t know what to do, Tony, he was panicking, he couldn’t breathe,” comes the rumble of Steve’s voice. 

“So you drugged him? Just went straight for the needle?”

“We tried, I promise we did, but it was a lot for all of us.”

Tony sighs. “I know, I’m sorry, I’m just tired. Thank you for being here, for staying with him.” 

“Of course. Thank you for letting us be here. For trusting us.” 

Tony hums in response, and Peter hears the door open and close, and then open again as Pepper finds her way back. He can smell the food she’s carrying: bacon and eggs and toast, just like the breakfast when Tony had first told him about the trip. 

Peter realizes, suddenly, that he hasn’t eaten since lunch the previous day, and he’s absolutely ravenous. Hungry enough to sit up and unglue himself from Tony’s side, though he doesn’t get off the bed. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Tony teases, brushing some of the hair from Peter’s forehead. “And how was your morning nap?” 

Peter offers a small smile, not just at the lame attempt at banter, but at the feeling of basking in Tony’s aliveness. Of being fortunate enough to have the opportunity to bask, instead of spending his day ironing the dreadful black suit and fumbling through tying the dreadful black tie. He feels better; the constant thrum of worry from before is on his brain’s proverbial back burner, and he just wants to enjoy Tony’s company. There are no gross, wiggly creatures lurking in his chest or in his stomach, or at least they’re hibernating at the moment. Tony is right beside him, okay for now.

“Good, good, I feel a little better. Hungry, though,”

“I bet you are. Pepper said you didn’t eat dinner.” There’s no accusation in his voice, just a barely-obvious tinge of concern. Peter shrugs. 

“Wasn’t hungry. Just worried.”   
“I know, bud, but it’ll take a lot more than a few random shots to kill me,” and Peter wants to argue that the shots had, in fact, almost killed him, but he leaves it. 

Peter leans back into his side, rests his head on Tony’s shoulder and accepts the plate Pepper hands him. There are still things to talk about; at some point, Peter should probably confront the gross feeling he gets at the thought of being any further than, say, five feet from Tony at a given time. But sitting on an uncomfortable mattress, protected from overchilled hospital air by blankets that are probably just pieces of extra gauze glued together, everything feels like some semblance of okay. Like their version of alright. 

“You’re not allowed to go to Japan anymore, unless you wear the suit 24/7.” 

“Yes sir,” Tony chuckles. “Honestly, I probably won’t be leaving here for a while, suit or not.” Peter smiles. Sitting tucked against Tony, background music to the tune of a dependable heartbeat, he thinks maybe it’s the smartest thing he’s ever heard Tony say.

“I’m okay with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading, I hope you liked it!  
> come find me on tumblr @howgeorgeusedtobe!

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! chapter two is outlined, I just have to write it all down haha but it shouldn't be more than a few days (famous last words)
> 
> come find me on tumblr @howgeorgeusedtobe!
> 
> also wasn't going to address that it's been ~9mos since I posted but literally all I can say is that junior year kicked my butt lol and it's not even over I still have another ap exam on tuesday


End file.
